Nappanee Advance-News, Volume 10, Number 47, Nappanee, Elkhart County, 13 February 1889 — Page 7

THE NAPPAXEE NEWS. BY 6. N. MURRAY. NAPPANEE. : ? IXO] ANA. THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. Sweet lovely saint, she ne’er will know The soul that worships her alone; I still must be content to bow My heart, but not its homage own. She is so young, she is so fair. While I am poor and gray and worn. To greet my love I only dare As aftcrnoou salutes the morn. St church I’m early in my place. To watch her tripping down the aisle; Sbc mounts the steps wuh modest grace And bends her head in prayer awhile. Then deftly turns the music o er— Such music when she sweeps the keyal Now loud and deep like ocean s roar. Now soft and low like summer breese. Her father, honest man, doth preach With pious fervor to his flock. Pointing the way for all to reaeh The haven of the ancient rook; I humbly try to catch the text. But that escapes my memory oft. My orisons so sadly mixed, They only reach tho organ loft. At Sunday-school I have a class. Where reverently 1 tnko my place And strive to do my share; alasl I greatly need redeeming grace. The lessons are a maze to me, The scholars scorn such rule as mine; My heart is up at number three. Whore Maty w.clds a sway divine. The youths who haunt the chapel door Have neither reverence nor fear. They dare approach my saint and pour Their callow twaddle In her ear. While they arc duller than the clay And she is radiant as a star, October glances back at May In hopeless worship from afar. —M. A. fuming, in Brooklyn Eagle. LAWRENCE LOVEJOY. A Romance of English Life During the Free-Trade Movement. BY FRANK J. MARTIN AND W. H. S. ATKINSON, Authors or “The Mills of God” and Other Stories. [Copyrighted, 1587, by Frank J. Martin, and note tint published by exclusit• arranger,lent with (he authors.\ CHAPTER XVlit. SURPRISES. * Tom speedily found our friend Lovejoy and cirried him off to their lodgings, where Tom slowly unraveled his story. “Are you sure, Lovejoy,” said he, “that you could not bo mistaken as to where you were bora and in regard to your parentage?” “ Well, that’s a queer question to ask me, anyway,” replied the preacher-politician. “ To tell you the truth, however, it is a question I have often put to myself, though not of late years. I have told you already, Tom, the main part of my history. No, lam not at all sure of my parentage. My father (that is, William Lovejoy) used to tell me that when very young, on account of my ill-health I went to stay with some relatives in Midshire, from whence he fetched me when I was somewhere between seven and eight years of age. I distinctly remember parting with two girls older than myself, Mary and Lucy, whom I had always known as my sisters, and also remember making the slow journey by wagon from the Midshire village to Lancashire. Prior to that time my memory does not serve me very well.” “ Let me see,” said Tom, “if I can not tell you a little of your early history,” and Tom repeated in a little different form the story he had recently heard from Mrs. Walker. Lovejoy was somewhat agitated as Tom gradually stirred his memory. “ Yes!” he exclaimed, “ I remember it all now. I remember father and mother and John. Poor John was shot, father was sent to prison and mother died. Oh, could Ibe positively certain that they were my own dear parents and if any of the girls or the old man are still living! And yet—and yet Lovejoy seems my natural name, and surely old William Lovejoy loved me as his own boy!” “Stay,” added Tom. “Do you remember writing your name and address in a Bible just as you were leaving your Midshire home?” “Yes, yes. I remember it all vividly, now you speak of it. But. tell me, Tom, what does all this tend to? Where did you get your information!” “Lovejoy, oldfriei;d,kcep calmer. I have teen that Bible, with your own writing on the fly-leaf, and 1 have seen your own sister Mary. She is your sister and your real name is Beckwith. Your sister is in great trouble—indeed is left a widow with two or three little children and is now living in Leeds, We will go to her by the first train in toe morning, and meanwhile I will tell you by what providential chance I happened on this discovery.” They were sitting at their early supper talking over Tom’s adventure wheu two letters, both originally addressed to Mill Hill and there were re-directed, brought in for Mr. Lovejoy. One was in a handwriting entirely strange to both of them. This Lovejoy opened first, putting the other in his pocket. Inside was a slip of paper on which was scribbled with pencil in a very shaky hand: “Mt Dear Son Lawrence: Come and see me at once. I shall not lire long, and 1 have a great deal to tell you. Do not doubt for a moment that I am Yonr affectionate father, “ Matthew Beckwith.” This was folded in a sheet of paper, on which was written by the same person who addressed the envelope: “Northborouqh, Yorkshire. “Rev. Lawrence Lovejoy, My Dear Sir: The inolosed is undoubtedly from your father, who Is known in this town as Matthew Eldis. We have been fast friends for over fifteen years, and he is now staying at my house. Come up here and see him as soon as possible, as he is very ill and appears to have something weighing on his mind of which you may relieve him. Every thing said to me by your father or yonrself will be in strict confidence. “Yours very truly. WILLXAM Dimont.” Lovejoy read these letters and then hand ed them to Tom to read. The both sat for nearly an hour in silence, Svhich Tom did not care to break. At last Lovejoy spoke. “This is all strange, wondrous strange,” he said; “it seems to me like a dream. 1 can hardly endure to stay here until morning, though I suppose I must. lam more Anxious now to see my father than my sister, and would prefer to go to Northborough first.” “We can manage it nicely,” answered Tom, who had already ascertained the time the train would start for Northborough. “We shall have to change trains and wait lover two hours at Leeds. You can see ijrour sister and, if she wishes to accompany you, take her with you to Northbori Before noon next day they were at Leeds, and rifey looking op Mr. Barker, they i <9o0vtived at One Tree court. The meetWKMtWW was affect-

ing, and tuere was no longer any doubt in Lovejoy's mind as to his identity. The two little dead children were to be buried that afternoon, so that Mrs. Walker could not very well accompany her brother to Northborough; so, promising to return in a day or two, Lawrence and Tom pursued their journey. It was dark when they reached their destination, just one week after the eventful night which George Foster had spent there. They made their way to the Crown Hotel, where a gloom hung over the occupants of the bar parlor on account of the absence of tho two oldest habitues. Mrs. Leader soon made them feel at home, and after a short rest and some refreshment Lovejoy, who was very impatient, started down to see his father. He was met at the door by Dimout himself, who took him into his snuggery to break the news of the shooting before father and son should meet. Dimont gently explained to Lovejoy the cir-

“MATTHEW, OLD FRIEND, HERE'S TOUR BOY.” cumstances of the affair in the High Gate, which we chronicled in the early part of this story, and stated that on account of his old friend’s sickness he had been remanded and admitted to bail. (Dimont did not tell Lovejoy that he had furnished the bail, although the latter guessed as much.) “And now, Mr. Lovejoy (or Mr. Beckwith, 1 suppose I should more properly call you), brace yourself up and control your feelings while with your father. This way, sir.” They entered the bed-chamber, where lay an old man in an apparently unconscious state. His eye3 were wide open, but they wandered listlessly around, resting at last with a vacant stare upon Dimont. “ Matthew, old friend, here is your boy, Lawrence, of whom you have spoken so much lately. Bid him welcome.” No token of recognition came from the old man, and he did not seem to hear what his good friend said to him. All at once, however, he caught sight of Lovejoy, and then a bright look of intelligence suffused his pleasant old face, as he exclaimed: “My boy! you have come at last. Dimont, please leave us together.” Thus addressed Dimont loft the room, after exhorting Lovejoy not to allow his father to overexert himself. “ Lawrence, my boy, you are like your poor mother, who died years ago. Give me your hand while I tell you a long story. First of all, bo assured I am Matthew Beckwith, your father.” “Father,” said Lawrence (the word “father” seemed to come quite naturally to him), “do not make your story too long, for your own sake. I remember well every thing up to the time I left Midshire, and I have heard all about the events of the past week. Far be it from me to blame you for what you did; the aggravation was great. You are my father and you may expect a son’s respect from me.” “ God bless you, Lawrence, God bless you. Well, you know that for taking a few hares out of Lord Ogilvio’s thousands to feed my hungry children I was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment. It was hard, and as I* had not the spirit to kick, they callcd my lifeless mood 1 good behavior,’ and I was liberated in less than six years. I worked at my trade as a journeyman for a year or two and saved all I could. Then I came to Northborough, where I started in business in a small way. I have prospered ever since, and have saved a nice little sum of money, which I have willed to Mary, knowing her to be a widow. You will ask me why I never looked up my children? I will tell you. It was some years after I came out of jail before I learned their whereabouts. When I did you had just become rector of Mill Hill. Mary I found married to a good husband, and Lucy I heard was tho wife of a baronet. Then, I thought, what would my children, who have settled well in the world, think of a father who has spent a good slice of his life iu jail? So I resolved to keep my name and place of abode to myself. I have lived a lonely life here, known as Matthew Eldis, with no friends to care for except William Dimont. But I hare watched you all, save Lucy, and I lost sight of her somfe years ago. You must try to find her, Lawrence, if she still lives. Os you, my son, I am proud. You have done well in life. As a clergyman I was proud of you, but as a leader and instructor of the people, and on account of the stand you have taken in regard to the vile Cora Laws, I am doubly proud of you. I would try to live could I hope to see-you Parliament fighting the grand and glorious battle side by side with the noble Richard Cobden. No thanks, however, to the OgilVies. Curse tho race! I heard ail about their conduct to you, and, by heaven, they paid a high price for it. Oh, Lawrence, revenge is sweet, especially after waiting over twenty years for it. I think God will pardon me if the deed was wrong. I don’t ask man’s pardon. But, oh, old Lord Ogilvie killed my eldest boy and ruined my home, and now I have taken his boy’s life. God forgive us all. Lawrence, my son, be a man of tho people for their sake, and for the sake of your brother, your mother and your father. Your hand, Lawrence.” The old fellow tightened his grasp on his son’s hand and fell back on his pillow exhausted. His eyes closed and he seemed to fall into a peaceful sleep. Lawrence was completely broken down, and, when he thought tho old man asleep, with their hands still locked together, he knelt by the bedside and wept. Thus Mr. Dimont found them when he entered the room, thinking his old friend would talk too much. He saw what Lawrence had not noticed. Touching him lightly on the shoulder Dimont pointed to toe old man and said: “Poor Matthew, no earthly judge will try him. He has passed ‘to where beyond these voices there is peace. ’ ” Lawrence arose, kissed the old man’s forehead and stepped to tho window. The snow was fallinp gently (the first snow since the fatal shot of a week since), covering the earth with a white garment—erasing all the stains and marks on the street. The moon shimmered its silvery light through the failing flakes, and, as he looked on this scene of quietness and purity, he prayed that the stains of his father’s checkered life might be wiped out in his death as the snow erased all that was black from the earth on which it fell. CHAPTER XIX. * -'t in parliament. It will be remembered that two- letters were received by Lovejoy on the evening when Tom Wilson brought him intelligence

of his sister. One he read at once, and we know its contents. The other he put into his pocket, where, amid the excitement of finding a father and sister, it remained forgotten. It was the day after his father’s burial when he discovered it. It ran as follows: “Ogilvie House. Stagshiiie. “My Dear Uk. Lovejoy: lam now a child less widow, and I feel that I ought to explain who you are and the circumstances which have led to my taking an inter est In your welfare. Briefly, then (I will go into particulars when I cau see and talk to you), my husband, the late Lord Ogilvie, was, unfortunately, the means of having your father imprisoned and your brother shot. I have tried to make amends to you for this wrong as best I could, and would havo done more but for the opposition I received from my son, who, it is only fair to state, knew nothing of your early history. He, however, is now gone; sent to bis long home by yow father, who I did not know was still alive. I forgive your father freely and trust that you will cherish no malice toward my poor boy and h s father. My position for years has been very painful to me. My feelings as a wife and molher clashed with my sense of duty as a woman—and a woman of the people; for, you must know, I was only a poor Midchester girl, married by Lord Ogilvie for my pretty face. But I want now to make amends for all past wrongs. I sympathize with the cause which has enlisted your services, and I wish to help both it and you. You must have a seat-in Parliament, and you must contest North M dshire with Sir James Percival at once. Draw on my bankers for all necessary expenses, and after you are elected, as I foci sure you will be, we will talk o( your future. I inclose yon a cheek far five hundred pounds for preliminary expenses, and, wishing you well, I am, yours sincerely, ‘ Caroline Ogilvie.” Lovejoy was amazed. In his earlier days it had been his highest ambition to have the right to tack the magic letters M. P. to the end of his name, and now here was the chanco at last. He had already given up all idea of returning to his clerical life, at any rate until the Corn Laws should be repealed. Lately, however, he haa hardly dared to dream of Parliament. He hastened to Manchester, stopping on his way at Leeds to tell his sister of their father’s death and to arrange for her future comfort, and then went down to Mill Hill and Ogilvie House. He told Lady Ogilvie all about his father’s death, and the result of their interview was, that these representatives of two families, which had been so strangely enemies for yaars, parted the warmest of friends—indeed, Lawrence Lovejoy and Lady Caroline had never been otherwise, only, when the facts of their history became known to each other, they were warmer friends than ever. Then came the canvass of tho county, which was carried on with much vigor by the “ Manchester party” in the manufacturing towns. Lovejoy was always warmly welcomed, for his name was almost as well known now as those of Bright, Cobden; Potter and tho rest of tho free-trade leaders. The votes of the landed proprietors and farmers were, however, all counted on by Percival, who represented the Tory interest, and tho election promised to be a very close one, as, indeed, it proved. But our friend headed the poll, the result being declared by the sheriff, at Midchester, as follows: Lovejoy, Liberal, 8,455. Percival, Conservative, 8,412. ' At the Free Trade Hall, in Manchester, there was much rejoicing, and, in a quieter way, in a Stagshir© farm-house, where pretty Maggie Wilson waited patiently for Lovejoy. He wrote her a short letter when he knew he was elected: “Darling Maggie: Either the Whigs or the Tories must help us now, we do not much mind which, so as the Corn Laws are repealed. I have just seen Mr. Cobden and he says that either Lord John Russell or Sir Robert Peel will bring forward a bill upon the subject as soon as Parliament meets. Cheer up, and tell your father that Tom was invaluable on the stump and won many a vote for the good cause. With fondest love, “ Yours as ever, “ Lawrence Lovejoy, M. P.” A few days later he mads his way to London to take his seat for North Midshire in the halls of St. Stephens. CHAPTER XX. TF.DDY TO THE RESCUE. We read and hear a good deal of strange coincidences, but it was indeed a strange coincidence that, on the very evening when George Foster sat m the parlor of the Crown Hotel at Northborough in company with old Matthew Beckwith, his sister should be sitting with the old man’s lost daughter Lucy; and stranger still that Lucy should bo the wife of the man who had so deeply wronged both Rachel and her brother. They met in this wise.' Lucy had been a prisoner in Dr. Bleadem’s house for nearly two years, when her health entirely gave way. Indeed she became so ill that the doctor himself began to fear he would soon lose a very profitable patient. In his anxiety he consulted a medical man who enjoined on him the necessity for careful nursing, and Rachel Foster was told off for the duty. Now, Dr. Bleadem was well aware that Abraham Hawkins had brought both these “ patients ” to his house, but then that did not go to show that they were acquaintances, as, during the past ten years, Mr. Hawkins had brought him as many as fourteen or fifteen. Moreover, Hawkins had told him in a casual way that they were perfect strangers, and at Percival’s particular request his name had never been mentioned by Hawkins in connection with Rachel. One reason why she was chosen by Dr. Bleadem to tend Lucy

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-“ ARB TOU SATISFIED NOW?” was because Hawkins had given the doctor to understand that she was to have as much liberty as the run of the house could furnish, and "this duty would keep her healthfully employed as well as save him the expense of a hired nurse. Tho two women soon became fast friends. Days art* as months in a prison-house, and iu a week they knew more of each other than would have been the case in a year outside Dr. Bleadem’s domain. Lucy told her story to Rachel, giving no names, while Rachel recounted her history to Lucy, giving every particular as to names and plaoes. Then it was, for tho first time, that Lucy knew for certain of tho rascality and worthlessness of the man who had promised to love and to cherish her as his lawful wedded wife. From that time she gradually sank away. Bleadem, who was more than usually

seared, sem. tor Percival, who, not knowing just what was t lie matter, came up at once, though not quickly enough. Lucy was dead, and, as Percival stood there looking at his wife, Rachel came in. He knew not that Rachel had attended Lucy until her death, and little guessed that she knew he was Lucy's husband. Bat she did. The day she died Lucy had said: “Rachel, he was my husband,” and for answer Racbel had kissed her tenderly. “Sir James Percival, are you satisfied?” said Rachel, as she stole into the room where death reigned. He was startled, but was equal to the emergency. He supposed she spoke of herself, and answered: “Oh, I just stepped in here from curiosity to see how a dead mad woman looks.” “Heartless wretch!” murmured Rachel. He left the room and called for Rachel to follow him. She did so. “I know what you would say,” said she, “but I would rather die here, murdered like your poor wife yonder, than marry such a wretch on any terms." “How about your brother,” asked Percival, nothing daunted. “In less than a month he will probably hang, unless something is done on his behalf” (Ho lied, for at that moment George Foster was at liberty and searching for Percival in London.) “Will you say the word that will free yourself and your brother?” “I have answered you once, trouble me no more. I doubt not your capability for all kinds of wickedness, but I will live and die here, as I have already said, sooner than leave it on any terms to be dictated by you.” “Well, we will see,” he answered, and left the room. Soiqg weeks later our friend Teddy Hudson passed through Enfield on his biennial trip and, nothing daunted by Dr. Bleadem’s notice to “Beware of the Dog,” marched boldly with his wares to the back door of toe private lunatic asylum. There through the iron bars which guarded the kitchen window he saw the familiar face of Rachel Foster. He could scarce believe his eyes, for he knew all about her mysterious disappearance. He knocked at the door, but was .rudely repulsed by Dr. Bleadem's fertile domestic. He put his foot in the way so that the door would not close tight. “Hold on,” he shouted, “what kind of a place is this anyway?” and lustily pushing the door he stepped into the kitchen. “Why, Miss Rachel, what’s the meaning of all thi6?” But poor Rachel, overjoyed to see a friendly face, even though that face was only the old peddler’s, gave way to her highly-strung feelings and fainted. Teddy's noise brought Dr. Bleadem on the scene and Teddy shouted all the louder: “I say, mister, who are you and what kind of a place is this for you to be hiding young ladies from their friends?” “My man,” said the doctor,” this is Dr. Bleadem’s private lunatic asylum, and I am Dr. Bleadem. You will please step out as quickly as you can or my man will have to put you out.” “Ah!” replied Teddy, “I have heard of such as you. I'll step out with Miss Rachel Foster, but not without her. Your man had better see about getting a post-chaise, first thing, and if I have any nonsense I’ll fetch this lady's brother to give you toe best thrashing you ever got. Only for my lost arm I’d do it myself. Wake up there. Dr. Bleadem. You send for the carriage while I attend to the young lady.” The doctor somehow thought it best to do as Hudson desired, and soon a carriage was brought round, and Rachel, recovering, drove off with old Teddy, who, in high glee, delivered her some three hours later safe and sound to the Wilsons at Mill HilL ******* Next morning the London papers published a piece of news, headed “A mysterious disappearance,” ancf this time it was no other than the proprietor of the private lunatic asylum. Dr. Bleadem thought “discretion the better part of valor” and that “ He who fights and runs away May live to fight another day." We must now revert for a time to George Foster, still in search of his sister. [TO BE CONTINUED.] ARTISTIC TASTE. It Enables a St. Louis Woman to Make a Comfortable Living. “Yes, my profession in this city is anew one—not an original idea strictly with me, for in New York there are several ladies in the high social life there who, with limited means, do just as lam k>ing.” The woman was speaking to a St. Louis G.’obe-Democrat reporter. She continued: “You see, I have naturally tho hand and tasto of an artist, not practically, but theoretically. I was aocustomed to wealth, and my artistic tasto was heightened by European travel and observation to the greatest point of culture. When reverses came, the idea was suggested to me to utilize the gift, and my profession is now an open secret here to all toe wealthy people and those of less means who have the house-decorating propensities. “When a house is built the owner sends for mo to arrange the interior. I select the furniture, the drapery, the bric-a-brac, in fact, every thing pertaining to the decorative part of the home. It very often happens that the owners with plenty of money to spend are absolutely divested of any ideas. So they place every thing in my hands. Then, again, there are people only comfortably enough situated to allow a certain amount to be used for the ornamentation of their home. I conform to both of these styles, very judiciously, of course. I select the ceiling and wall designs, then the gas or electric jets. . “After the solid portion comes the movable, the rugs, skins, draperies and articles of virtu. I buy and arrange every thing with my own hands. It is a work of fancy, but I do not limit mj - charges, and I have a good income from my arduous art work. There is scarcely a handsome or artistic home in this city which is not the result in interior loveliness to my skill. Os course, it is sub rosa. 1 simply sell my taste and talent, and to the master or mistress falls all the credit of the accomplished beauty.’* Criminal News Reporting. The question of the responsibility of the newspapers in reporting crimes is a very serious one. It is utterly impracticable to talk of suppressing criminal news. To do so would often defeat justice. It is sometimes said that the newspapers help criminals by putting them on their guard and informing them of the movements of the police. It far more often happens that the newspapers, by setting up a hue and cry over the whoie couutry, hunt a criminal down who might otherwise have escaped. It is idle to conceal the fact that crimes are, to a certain extent, a subject of legitimate interest. Men and women expect to see in their newspapers what they like to talk about, and there are at times forgeries, murders or suicides about which the whole public wishes to be informed. m Carpenters and other tool-users who keep up with the times are now using a mixture of glycerine, instead of oil for sharpening their edged tools. Oil. as is well known, thickens and smears the stone. Tho glycerine may be mixed with spirits in greater or less proportion, according as the tools to be sharpened are fine or coarse. For the average blade two parts of glycerine te one of spirits will suffice

FOE OUB YOUNG READEBS. THE FAMILY VALENTINE. A pair of dark eyes that are merry and bright, A sauev young nose just below. And under the nose a sweet pair or red lips. And two oval oheeks all aglow With health, and with color that mocks the wild rose, And a soft little, dear little chin. And hair like a cobweb of finest spun silk When the sunshine is fast woven in. The one darling girl of mamma and papa. The one darling sister of boys. Who tease her, and love her, aal make her to share In all of their sorrows and joys. The one girfir-grandchlld of grandma so dear, And grandpa so jolly and kind. The one little niece of her aunties, who own That to all of her faults they are blind. Oh, do you not think she's an enviable lass? The dear little maiden so sweet? Who rules all the household, and fills every heart With the grace cf her childhood complete? When Valentina's day comes around, no one asks “Pray, who will mv Valentine be?"’ 1 The choice of tiie family centers in on-. As any can easily see. Love-letters from mother, from father as well Love-letters from brothers beside. Love-letters from grandpa, and grandmamma, too. And from aunties, and all of them tied With the daintiest of ribbons in red. white and blue, (There’s strength in the union, they say). Oh, how does she manage to read them all through— Those billets of Valentine’s day? But who is her Valentine, ask you? dear me! It Is easy to answer you that. Her dearest, and favorite of all valentines. Is—every one knows —her gray cal. —Mary D. Brine, In Christian at Work. ■— ANCIENT TOYS. Plavthihgs With Which Children Amused Themselves More Than Fifteen Hundred Years Ago. Which of you is not interested in toys? What boy is there who does not possess his tops, his marbles, or his cricket or tennis bat? And what girl is there who does not own a doll, a perambulator, a skipping-rope, or something of the sort? But have you ever thought how the little children who lived more than a thousand years ago fared in this respect? Perhaps not. Then let me tell you of something which has just been brought to light with regard to the toys of Egyptian children at a time when England was inhabited by rude barbarians, comparatively unacquainted with the arts and manufactures of civilized life. In a vast cemetery, now buried beneath the sand, discovered by Mr. Flinders Petrie, many curious things have been found, amongst them the toys whicli' I am going to speak about. First, lot me tell you that this cemetery, the existence of which was previously unknown, is pronounced to have been the necropolis, or buryingplace, of a town built at the time of the Roman occupation of Egypt, near what is now for the first time proved to be the celebrated structure mentioned by the old Greek historians, Herodotus and Strabo, nailed the Labyrinth. This burial-place is not far from the Hawara Pyramid. Here Mr. Petrie has discovered mummies differing greatly from any found before, some of them most beautifully made and decorated, with lifesize colored portraits in wax, looking much like oil-paintings. It is possible that these mummies were in their lifetime well-to-do Greeks or Romans, who were about that time masters in Egypt. The Roman coins found, and the Greek manuscripts and inscriptions, as well as the portraits, which are distinctly of the Grceco-Roman epoch, all go to prove this. Yet it is singular that the Greeks and Romans were never known to have been made into mummies, but, although, as a rule, strongly Opposed to the practice, they must in this case have adopted the customs of the people with whom they lived. One of the Egyptian customs was to bury with the mummies slave images, evidently to wait upon their masters and mistresses in a future state. And so following the same notion it comes about that with some of the mummies of children were buried their toys, with the idea, no doubt, that they would at a future time be of service to them, and thus we are now able to see the very toys which the children of that town in Egypt played with more than fifteen hundred years ago. Quite a collection of toys was found with the mummy of one child, and as a list of them will be interesting, I give them all. There was, to begiu with, a broken terra-cotta doll, a doll’s stool and bedstead of wood, together with several bottles made of opaque and colored glass, alabaster, and wood, apparently for toilet purposes; a turned wooden box, two boxes with sliding lids, something like boys’ paint boxes of to-day; a little basket, with cover, a comb, part of a net for the hair, a bead necklace, a small terra-cotta jug. and a little Sphinx of tho same material, and a colored image, called a Cynoeepalus, which belonged to a much earlier period (the Ptolemaic), and which was evidently old and chipped when buried. The collection affords a wonderful insight into the child-life of those faraway times, and shows how much one age resembles another in these matters. In another child’s tomb there wore found a wooden doll’s chair, some little baskets, a small metal mirror with its face tinned bright, and some small glass bottles, both colored and plain. In other places were found tops, almost exactly like the whip-top used by boys of the present day; a rag doll, a terra-cotta chair like a sedan chair, with a lady inside; necklaces, bracelets, hair-pins, needles for leather work, pieces of colored embroidery, the remains of fiord wreaths, which still preserved their form, although of course the color had gone. All these

and other curious thiDgs had be in preserved by the sand for hund: Jds of years, in some cases apparently without suffering in the least—Little Folks. IN THE FAR WEST] The Valentines That Came to Flor, nee and Nettle end Mar. There were three very doleful little faces at the window that Fourfc mth of February morning. It was a small window. Th< ‘house was small too, and built of her ty timber, so that the cyclones need; t tip it over, and blow every thing ins de out, and every thing outside in. •“It’s a horrid place!” said F jrence, with just a suspicion of tear; in her blue eyes. “It’s the horrides' place I ever saw! I wish I could go rack to gramma’s.” and she looked traight out of the window with eyes s > misty now that she couldn’t see t e level prairie stretching all around. “We don’t have any*-thing here!’* sighed Nettie; “only Thank giving, and that wasn’t a bit like gi tmma’s Thanksgivings used to be.” “Os course Christmas comes ust the same!” put in May, with a quiver; “but it don’t seem like Christm s ’thout any snow, or sleigh-rides, or ar : thing. New Year don’t either, does it ” “No,” said Florence; “any time don’t, and to-day is just as b ,d’s the rest of ’em. O girls, don't yc t ’member what a lovely valentine I jot last year?” . “And I did, too!” “And so did I! Oh dear me! Then there was silence for a little while—a very little while. lamma, rocking the baby to sleep by i he west window, smiled, and kept on singing her soft lullaby; but you cot ,and have seen that she looked along t e road, which was only a track ac oss the prairie, quite often and rather rnxiousiy- “ ’Bout this time the postr .an used to come,” said May, with sc md of a sob in her throat; “every year but this. I wish”— “So do I, too,” said Nettie. Just then mamma, watching the prairie-trail, saw a little moving speck in the distance. The little girls didn’t see it; they were at the east window, and, besides, their eyes were too full of tears to see any thing so far away. Even mamma couldn’t be quite sure of what it was, though she thought she knew. The speck kept coming nearer and nearer, and growing larger and larger, untilmamma was sure; but she didn’t . say a word; she only went on humming to the baby a cheery little song. “Mamma’s always singirg ’bout silver linings and things lite that.” said Florence pretty soon, ler tears getting ready to fall agair; “but I don’t b’lieve there is any. Every thing’s so horrid and lonesome!” “And we never can go aly where! Oh dear, dear!” “Not after plums, when they’re ripe. Not to school even, ’cause it,‘s so far. And mamma says she can’t bear for ua to be little black she—she” “Z/cathens, you mean,” s'rid Florence, and she couldn’t help ithe least little laugh, though she choked it down as quick as she could; “that’s what mamma said only she cidn’t say black ones. And that’s just irezactly what we’ll be. and not know siy thing. And I’d like to know ward’s t le silverlining to that.” There was a queer littlo tremble tc mamma’s song, as if someho r a laugh was getting mixed up with it “I wish I was back to my g untoa’s, ” went on Florence. “I wish’ Rat-tat-rat-tat-tat! “Go to the door,” said mamma, quietly. “I’ve got the baby. ” The children hung back a little. A visitor was a rare thing and might be an Indian, and they were afr ud of Indians. But pretty soon Florence went ahead, because she was the eldest, and opened the door softly. There was nobody to be 3een, but papa had come, because t ey could hear him unharness'rig his t< un In the lean-to. “Why, who”—began Florence, and -then she gave a sudden little shrill scream. “O-o-oh! O Nettie! Om; mma! O* May! O-o-oh!” For there, hitched to a post at the corner of the house, were t. ree little Indian pouies, so nearly ilike you couldn’t tell one from the other two unless you knew. Around each pony’s neck was tied a ribbon, one red, one white, one blue; and to each ribbon was faste ed a card. On the red-ribbon card it s lid, “Nettie’s Valentine;” and the wh te was for Florence, and the blue for M ay. I don’t believe you ever saw three happier little girls. They It ighed and danced and sang. The only trouble was each one wanted to name her pony “Valentine.” But they settled the matter nicely at last. They named them all Valentine. “I’ll call mine ‘Val,’ ” said Florence, “for short, you know.” “And I’ll call mine ‘A! ie,’” said Nettie. “And I’ll call mine ‘Tiny,’ said May. "“OIL isn’t every thing spier,did?” “So there’s some good here after all,” said maiafeia. with a smile. “Well, I guess there is!” laughed Florence; “there’s ponies ” —Youth’s Companion. —Ansoaia (Conn.) peop a point to an elegant house in that borough and say: “Thai was built with Mrs. ’s pin money.” After njoyiagfoi a few minutes the surprise resulting • from this statement the informants add: “She inherited the money from her father, who was a pin manufacturer. —New Haven Palladium.